The Case of the Vengeful Ghost
by Random Phantom
Summary: In something of a sequel to the Hound of the Baskervilles, Holmes and Watson are called back to Dartmoor by a distraught Sir Henry, who believes himself to be haunted by a familiar spirit... peril ensues for all concerned. Now completed.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: My first Holmes fic. I apologise if I do anything to upset those more familiar with the canon than I. I have tried to come to know these characters before daring to write for them. I have blended book canon with the events of the 2002 adaptation of the Hound of the Baskervilles; this story is something of a sequel, but can stand alone. I hope that you enjoy it. I do not have a beta reader; all mistakes are my own, so please forgive any inaccuracies.

~*~

The sitting room of 221b Baker Street had numerous advantages, foremost amongst which was the perfect view that it afforded of the streets below, and the opportunity for a casual observer at the window to take in all of the comings and goings, virtually unnoticed – so few people ever raised their eyes heavenwards when going about their daily business. Sherlock Holmes, however, had decided against availing himself of this particular observational activity, and was instead ensconced in his armchair, near to the fire, his eyes half-closed as his fingers absently plucked at the strings of his violin. After all, it was a cold January night, and there were frequent flurries of snowfall; it was also approaching a fairly late hour, and there were few people wandering the streets given the inclement weather combined with the approaching midnight hour.

Holmes paused in his music only long enough to remove the pipe from his mouth. It was one of his favourites, and he studied it carefully. It was made of cherry-wood, exquisitely crafted, and it had been a gift from Watson several Christmases ago. Speaking of whom… Holmes heard the click of the latch of the front door, the distinctive creak of the hinges. There was a slight pause; Holmes visualised Watson brushing snow from his boots, removing his coat and hat, and then he heard the familiar tread on the stairs. Holmes frowned, ever so slightly – the soft, but unmistakeable tapping noise with each step told him that Watson was using his cane to climb the stairs, rather than simply carrying it up. No doubt his war-injured leg was aching in the cold weather. Counting the steps, he waited until Watson was level with the door.

"Come on in, my dear doctor," he called, amiably, "there is a warm fire going, and I am sure a medicinal brandy would not be amiss."

"Good evening, Holmes," Watson smiled, tiredly, as he came through the door, unsurprised to see the detective still awake, "sorry, old chap; I hope I didn't disturb you."

"Nonsense," Holmes waved his hand dismissively, "I take it that the seasonal 'flu is still upon us? I can take it from your extremely wet and muddy shoes and trousers that you must have walked over half the city to visit on your rounds this afternoon… but that is beside the point!"

Holmes clapped his hands down on the arms of his chair, and launched himself to his feet. Watson, used to the sudden energetic outbursts of his fellow lodger, simply stood back.

"Sit, Watson, do sit down," Holmes indicated towards the other armchair, with the footstool already aligned facing the fire, "I have it here somewhere… ah, yes, here it is. This arrived for you this morning. You left rather early – I take it that you had a morning clinic."

"Yes," Watson nodded, distantly, settling himself into the armchair, "several ice-fall related injuries, mild seasonal illnesses, and a case of hypothermia, nothing too serious… ah, thank you."

He accepted the brandy that Holmes held out towards him, and then frowned as a second item was forthcoming; "A letter?" he noted.

"Addressed to you," Holmes nodded, retaking his seat in front of the fire, "tell me; Watson, before you open it – what can you deduce from it?"

Watson shifted slightly in his seat, lifting and resting his legs comfortably on the footstool as he examined the envelope.

"Let me see," he said, quietly, "and you'll forgive my tired eyes, I hope… the envelope is fairly standard, I believe, available from any stationer. The handwriting on the address is neat, and educated, though slightly shaky – either the writer is infirm, or he wrote it in a great deal of hurry or excitement. It is postmarked from Dartmoor, and had clearly travelled some distance given the rumpled state. What else?"

"Does it have any… distinctive aroma?" Holmes asked, with a half-smile tugging at his lips.

Watson, playing along, knowing that Holmes had already deduced everything there was to learn from the document, lifted the envelope to his nose and inhaled slowly. He closed his eyes and inhaled again.

"Tobacco," he said, his voice slightly distant; "mixed with… hum… what is that? Camphor oil, I think, and… laudanum? From a doctor, or at least from a surgery… but then you have deduced all this already, I suppose."

Holmes pounced on the opening, nodding quickly.

"It is indeed," he said, "from the watermark smudges along one edge; I would say the letter was carried in a pocket for some time, with one edge exposed slightly to inclement weather. It has indeed come from Dartmoor, and the scent of the tobacco is one I am familiar with. I would go so far as to deduce that the letter has come from our mutual friend, Dr. Mortimer. Being more overtly acquainted with you, my dear Watson, he naturally addressed the correspondence to yourself, although from the excitement indicated b the handwriting, I would wager he has a case that may interest us both."

"If you have quite finished, I should like to open it," Watson smiled.

Holmes held out the letter opener he had secreted into one of his dressing-gown pockets, and Watson carefully slit the envelope, removing the letter. He scanned it quickly, and then read it again, more thoughtfully. There was a slight frown creasing his brow when he looked up.

"It is, of course, from Dr. Mortimer," he said, at last, "and he does indeed seek our mutual assistance."

"Let me hear it in his words, Watson," Holmes said, imperiously, taking a seat, leaning back in the chair and lacing his fingers together.

Watson cleared his throat slightly, and read the letter aloud; "My dear Dr. Watson. How long it seems since we last corresponded, and longer still since that dreadful incident with Sir Charles Baskerville and the hound! But still, I fear I write not to reminisce, much to my chagrin. I hope you will forgive me for imposing upon you once more, but I hope that you would be good enough to come and join us for a few days at Baskerville Hall, when you can spare the time. Sir Henry is at his wits' end, and I fear his nerves and health are frayed to breaking point. He was all but recovered from the Hound's foul bite, when the most unnerving things began to happen – howling and screaming surround the Hall at night, and disturbing portents surround. My dear Watson, you may think me quite mad, but I say to you with certainty – Sir Henry is haunted by the ghost of Beryl Stapleton! I have seen the spectre myself; the local priest has been unable to exorcise it, and my wife holds nightly séances, beseeching the creature to speak to her. I implore you, Watson, and the great Mr Holmes, please, come if you are able, and put an end to this nonsense as you did with the hound. I write at Sir Henry's behest, and I hope that you will accept his hospitality once more. We remain, in your debt and in hope, yours, Dr. James Mortimer."

Holmes was silent for a long moment, digesting this information. Watson took a sip of the brandy, leaning back in the chair, content to let Holmes do the thinking. Wordlessly, the doctor held out the letter, and Holmes took it eagerly. Truth be told; they had no cases demanding their attention at present, and though Watson's surgery was busy, any one of the neighbouring practices would gladly pick up on his case load – it was a favour he returned often enough, and abundantly.

"Dr Mortimer writes in a state of extreme excitement," Holmes noted, dryly, "the writing is rushed, frequently smudged, and the letter lacks decorum, even more than one would expect when writing to a familiar friend. I cannot fault the pen, ink or paper – all of which are common, unremarkable brands – the shake is in the writer's hands. Yet he believes everything that he says – that a ghost now haunts Sir Henry Baskerville! A ridiculous notion, worse than that of a spectral hound."

"You proved that the hound was flesh and blood," Watson pointed out, sleepily, knocking back the rest of the brandy quickly.

"As I am certain that this spectre is, or at least the cause of it," Holmes said, quickly, his interest clearly piqued, "Watson, if you are not too tired, I suggest that you pack your valise before retiring tonight; we shall leave early tomorrow for the village of Grimpen. I shall wire Dr Mortimer to meet us at the station. Sir Henry needs our help; and we shall provide it!"

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Early the next morning, they breakfasted lightly on boiled eggs with toast and coffee; Holmes continued to study Mortimer's letter, although he had deduced everything that he needed to from his first reading of it. Their packed bags sat waiting beside the door, prepared the night before. They had each had a little sleep, and spoke little over their breakfast, each lost in their own thoughts.

Finally, as if on an unspoken signal, Holmes stood, and reached for his coat and hat. Watson followed suit, and, leaning only slightly on his cane, lifted his bags with his free hand. Holmes retrieved his own luggage, and the two left as quietly as possible, leaving the breakfast things to be cleared away by their esteemed landlady.

Down on the snow-covered street, Holmes hailed a cab. The horse trotted to a halt in the grey slush of the road, and Holmes gave directions to the cabbie as Watson stored their bags and climbed aboard. Holmes gazed out of the window as the cab bounced and clattered along the streets of London, as the city began to wake up. A few gentle flakes of snow were still falling, and, although the air was icy-cold, the streets were becoming alive with people. Dozens of sights and smells assailed Holmes as he observed keenly; the night watch of the police wearily making their way home; shopkeepers opening their doorways; the smell of fresh bread from the bakery; the shout of the newspaper boy. He heard Watson shift uncomfortably on the bench opposite to him, as Holmes withdrew from the window.

Holmes knew better than to question Watson about his health, nor to comment on it; still, he could see that the doctor was in some discomfort, no doubt brought about by the cold weather and his busy Kensington surgery practice. With so many patients stricken with 'flu and other winter illnesses and confined to bed, the city's medical men were kept busy travelling from one home to another on their rounds.

"I should think a few days in the countryside will do us both some good," Holmes commented, nonchalantly.

Watson raised an eyebrow; "In a haunted old hall in the middle of winter?" he remarked, amused.

Holmes snorted; "I do not believe in ghosts, Watson, and neither should a man of science such as you. No, there is a human face behind Sir Henry's current torment, and I shall unmask it."

"I certainly hope so," Watson replied, with a casualness that might have deceived anyone else but Holmes, "I should think Sir Henry has suffered enough haunting in his lifetime."

Holmes simply made a vague noise of agreement, already turning back to study the streets. They arrived at the train station, and the cabbie helped them to unload their bags. Holmes paid him, as Watson procured tickets.

"The train, fortunately, has not been held up by the weather," the doctor reported, rejoining the detective; "though I'm glad of my overcoat and scarf – I do detest the cold!"

Holmes, similarly bundled up against the cold, nodded in agreement as they carefully picked their way through well-trodden snow towards the platform. The train pulled in a few minutes later, and they boarded it gratefully, although it was not much warmer in the carriage than it had been on the platform. They found themselves an empty compartment, and, having safely stored their bags, they adjourned to the dining cart to obtain some hot coffee. The train was virtually deserted; clearly, the weather was deterring many people from travelling; and in the post-Christmas lull of the New Year, few people had any need to travel in any case. Holmes watched the scant activity taking place on the platform, as the steward brought them their coffee. Watson poured them each a drink, and glanced across the table.

"I take it from your expression that we have been followed, or at least observed?" he asked, conversationally, "I saw no-one from the carriage."

"Indeed," Holmes murmured, turning away from the window, "the boy in question was already waiting at the station. He saw us arrive, followed us in, but has not followed us onto the train. I suspect he has been employed to advise someone in Dartmoor of our impending arrival; ah, yes, there he goes; off to send a telegram I would imagine."

Watson smiled slightly; "Then you are correct. There is a human agent at work."

"Of course there is!" Holmes snorted, "I simply need to deduce who would wish Sir Henry any further harm – and there is no point dwelling on the matter until we have obtained further facts from the very source."

Watson took the hint, smiled again, and sipped at his coffee, nursing the cup to warm his hands. There was no point in attempting to coax Holmes into a guessing game as to what was going on in Dartmoor. A loud whistle split the air, and moments later, the train clanked forwards, and with a loud blast of steam, the locomotive strained forwards, slowly building up speed, as they pulled out of the station.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

The two travellers eventually left the dining cart, returning to their cold compartment. The room remained as they had left it, and Holmes contentedly pulled out his pipe and began to smoke, as Watson gazed out of the window. They soon left London, passing through snow-covered countryside as they sped on their way. The journey passed by without incident, as they chatted idly, read the papers, and dozed lightly in turn. Eventually, the train pulled up at the station, and the cries of the porter to disembark roused them from their cabin.

They dismounted the train with their luggage, to find themselves standing in several inches of snow on the platform. Although it was not snowing, the air was cold and the sky was grey, leaden and heavy with the threat of the storm to come. Shivering, Watson took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane, glancing around. Only a few other travellers had dismounted the train, and they disappeared quickly, leaving only Holmes, Watson and the station-porter.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" the porter drawled, from somewhere within his overcoat, scarf and hat, "for 'tis far too cold to be standin' around in this."

"We're expecting someone to meet us," Watson replied, politely.

"Well, I hope you don't mind staying for a few days," the man continued, as if he hadn't heard, "I s'pect trains won't be running no more for a while when that snow comes down. Bad enough as is."

"Err, yes, thank you," Watson touched his hat, and the odd porter disappeared.

Holmes lifted his bag easily, and strode through the snow to the front of the station. There, they waited under the eaves for a good few minutes. Eventually, Watson broke the silence.

"I hope Dr. Mortimer received your telegram," he commented, glancing across at Holmes.

"Indeed," the detective replied, with a frown, "it would be most inconvenient to attempt to find someone to take us to the Hall… ah, wait – a carriage approaches."

Watson turned, and indeed, an open trap was rattling down the road, led by a single shire horse, guided by a very familiar figure, which leapt down and greeted them warmly.

"My dear Mr Holmes-! Dr. Watson-! Such a pleasure to see you again! Thank you so much for coming, and so quickly as well. Sir Henry was delighted to hear news of your coming; the poor chap, his nerves are almost ruined by all that has been happening…"

"Of which you must tell us more, once we are at Baskerville Hall," Holmes said, firmly.

"Oh, yes, of course," Mortimer nodded, quickly, "do forgive me; you must be perishing cold… I am afraid that Sir Henry's personal cab has a wheel off it – an odd, unfortunate happenstance – so we are, I am afraid, limited to my little trap until it has been repaired…"

He helped them to lift up their luggage, stowing it beneath the seat, and the two of them climbed aboard, wrapping their coats around themselves tightly, as Mortimer eased the horse into a swift trot.

"We'll be there as soon as we can, gentlemen!" he called, over his shoulder, "the roads are not too bad, at the moment, but the weather has made travel difficult…"

The trap rattled along the roads, and Watson was beginning to doubt the wisdom of their decision to travel immediately; he wondered if it might have been better to wait a week or two until the weather improved. A quick glance across at Holmes betrayed nothing of what the great detective was thinking, though his eyes were half-closed against the bitter wind, and his nose and cheeks had reddened in the cold. Watson knew that he looked no better; a particularly sharp jolt made him hiss, reached involuntarily for his shoulder, which was beginning to ache as he held himself tense against the cold.

They passed through the familiar village of Grimpen, out into the country lanes. The horse's pace slowed slightly on the less well-travelled path, but they kept up a steady trot. Eventually, in the ever-growing darkness, a pinprick of light appeared. Mortimer encouraged the horse onwards, as Baskerville hall came into view. In the darkness, it was hard to see if the place had changed at all as they traversed the moor-path; however, a row of lights had been installed up the front drive, and the windows all blazed brightly, a beacon in the freezing night-time.

The trap eventually drew up to the front door, where they were met by Perkins, Sir Henry's elderly groom. He greeted them quickly, and, placing his fingers to his lips, issued a loud whistle. The front door suddenly opened, and Barrymore, the butler, appeared quickly to take their bags inside. Holmes stepped down from the trap, feeling an aching, deep stiffness in his bones, induced by the cold and inactivity of remaining seated in the trap. He stepped forwards as Watson dismounted with somewhat less grace, swearing under his breath as he stumbled slightly. Holmes reached out to steady him, but Watson waved off the assistance with an apologetic smile, and turned towards the house. Perkins quickly led the horse and trap away; as Dr Mortimer agreed that he would be staying the night, not wishing to risk a journey back to the village in the freezing darkness.

"If you'll follow me, gentlemen," Barrymore indicated the door.

The trio silently followed him up the steps and into the hall, where he closed the door. Their bags were placed at the bottom of the stairs for now, as Barrymore assisted them in removing and hanging their coats. He then lead them through to a sitting room, where a fire was blazing merrily in the hearth, the first real warmth that Holmes and Watson had felt since leaving their lodgings in London on their long journey.

"Sir Henry?" Barrymore ventured, "Dr Mortimer has returned, with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson."

"Oh! My dear fellows!" Sir Henry leapt out of his armchair and greeted them enthusiastically, shaking their hands in turn, "thank you so much for coming. Please; come in, be seated, make yourselves warm – you are all almost blue with cold! Barrymore; I should be grateful if you would ask Mrs Barrymore to provide us with some hot tea, and prepare some dinner for our guests."

"Of course, Sir," Barrymore bowed slightly and left the room, as the three new arrivals gladly took their places around the roaring fire.

Watson took a moment to take in Sir Henry's appearance; the jagged scars around his ear from the bite of the hound had faded to the stark white of an old wound, and the man had grown his hair somewhat longer than was fashionable, no doubt to attempt to disguise the slight disfigurement. He looked older than when Watson had last seen him; not just in terms of the few short years since the incident of the hound, but greyer; tired, pale, as if he had been overwrought too much for too long. He was pale, and thin, with dark circles under his eyes, though he was still lively, talkative, and enthusiastic in his greeting of those whom he considered to be his honoured guests.

Hot tea was provided, by a thin, waif-like serving girl with a pox-scarred, sallow face. She dipped a slight, sullen curtsey, and disappeared out of the door before Sir Henry could ask her to serve. He sighed.

"Please excuse Sally," he said, "I only took her on a few weeks ago. She's the niece of the Barrymores… her mother died recently, and her father asked if there was a place for her on my staff… my previous maid left just before Christmas, so I agreed to take her on. She has a lot to learn. Tea, gentlemen?"

"Allow me, Sir Henry," Dr Mortimer stepped in graciously, and served each of them with a hot drink.

As they sipped at the tea, Mortimer, Sir Henry and Watson exchanged small talk, remarking upon the modernisation and decorative works Sir Henry had undertaken in his time at Baskerville Hall. There had also been additions to the staff, as Holmes noted with interest; in addition to Mr and Mrs Barrymore, the groom Perkins, and Sally the new maid, there was also Jenkins, a gardener and grounds-keeper, who had arrived at about the same time from the nearby Grimpen village.

Warmed by the tea and the fire, they soon moved amiably from the sitting room to the dining room, where they dined on a hot soup to begin with, followed by roast beef and vegetables, and a hot fruit pudding to finish. Having dined well, and feeling fully satisfied, they again retired to the sitting room, where they seated themselves around the fire with a decanter of brandy between them. Holmes lit his pipe, and Dr Mortimer followed suit, while Watson and Sir Henry opted instead for cigarettes. Outside, it was cold, dark and snowing. Inside, it was warm, bright, and friendly. Eventually, however, Holmes leaned forward slightly in his chair.

"Sir Henry," he said, gravely, "I do thank you for your kind hospitality this evening, but I feel it is time we came down to the purpose of our visit…"

The atmosphere grew sombre, as Sir Henry nodded, slowly.

"Of course, Mr Holmes," the American agreed, his fingers tensing slightly around his glass, "and I am very grateful to you both for coming… as you will know from Dr Mortimer's letter, I… that is, we… have been… haunted… by the spectre of Beryl Stapleton."

Watson gritted his teeth slightly; he still recalled, with no small amount of anger, the sight of the poor woman's body hanging in an outbuilding at Merripit House. She had been abused and murdered by her husband, with whom she had posed as sister and brother, and although their name wasn't even 'Stapleton', it was the one that Sir Henry seemed comfortable using; better that than to be ever reminded that the callous man was a close blood relative.

"Please, Sir Henry," Holmes said, sternly, "limit yourself to the facts, and I will deduce from them your unfortunate circumstances."

"I can tell you only what I saw," Sir Henry exclaimed, "the first apparition was three weeks ago – shortly before Christmas. I hosted a party in the hall for the people at the village on Christmas Eve. The night before the party, I was relaxing in this very room. I was reading a book, alone, when I heard a tapping on the glass of the window. I looked up, and saw nothing. Returning to my book, a few moments later the tapping sounded again. There are no plants or trees, nothing nearby that could be catching the glass in the window… I looked up, and approached the window, wondering if it might be a bird or animal outside, intending to shoo it away… as I approached… she… it… that… that thing, suddenly appeared before me, outside the window…"

The colour drained from Sir Henry's face as he spoke, recalling the sight that had greeted him.

"Please describe it, Sir Henry," Holmes encouraged him.

"It… it was skeletal," Sir Henry's voice was almost a whisper, as he stared in vague horror at the window, "it… she… had Beryl's long brown hair, but… it was just a skull. It wore that lovely yellow dress… the one she wore when she… when he…"

He broke off, and took a deep, shuddering breath; "I know… I sensed that it was her, it was Beryl… All of this I took in, all in a flash… then there was a loud, mournful, wailing cry, such like as I haven't heard since… since the howl of that terrible hound… and the spectre disappeared. I don't mind telling you that I was shocked to the core… it took me a few moments to gather my wits. I called for Barrymore, Jenkins and Perkins – we searched the grounds, and found nothing. There were no footprints in the soil, which was wet from the rain, and no trace of a mortal presence…"

"How often have you seen the spectre since then – and where?" Holmes interrupted, as Watson and Mortimer listened attentively.

"Several times – usually once every two or three days," Sir Henry replied, swallowing nervously, and staring out of the window hesitantly, "the last time was… two days ago. It is always at night, always fairly late… always the spectre appears outside, and always at a window – not always on the ground floor. I have seen it two or three times from my own bedroom window. When I moved to guest rooms, the spectre… followed me."

"I have seen it," Dr Mortimer affirmed, "it is as Sir Henry describes. I have seen it twice, once from this window with Sir Henry present, and once from a bedroom window, when I consented to spend the night in a guest room. It is as… disturbing… as Sir Henry describes. Both times we made extensive searches of the grounds, and found no traces in the earth, either immediately afterwards and in the cold light of day… the phantom has been seen by the staff, too, sir… it frightened the poor maid until she left, along with the previous groundskeeper and a scullery maid hired a couple of years ago to assist Mrs Barrymore…"

"Thank you, gentlemen," Holmes interrupted, leaping to his feet, and puffing quickly on his pipe, "Most informative. Sir Henry, I would wager that this skeletal apparition is nothing more than some clever puppet, one with a human master; as was the nature of the hound. There will be some clever trickery afoot here, no doubt – someone is trying to scare you, and yet has prevented you from leaving the Hall… this mysterious puppet master wishes to keep you here, but wishes to break your spirit, and I cannot fathom yet the whys…"

"What makes you say that I am being kept here?" cried out Sir Henry, leaning forward in his chair, "how the devil do you deduce it, sir?"

"Dr Mortimer remarked on the odd, unfortunate happenstance of your coach requiring repair, Sir Henry," Holmes replied, calmly, "I took it from his tone and demeanour that neither he nor you could fathom how the damage had come about, only that a wheel had come off and in such a way that your own groom and household staff could not effect repair. My immediate thought, therefore, is sabotage."

"Why, it is the very finding of Perkins himself that he thought the damage deliberate, and all of this without even seeing the offending vehicle!" Sir Henry laughed, the first genuine sign of merriment he had made all evening, "Mr Holmes – you give me hope of being rid of this… this apparition… for the first time in these last three weeks!"

"I intend to inspect the grounds first thing this morning, when it grows light," Holmes declared, "Sir Henry, I imagine your problem to be a simple one; this 'apparition', as you call it, is being used to scare you, by a person or persons unknown. Someone wishes you harm, and has been systematically scaring away your staff but ensuring that you yourself remain. Someone is trying to scare you, and isolate you. Why, Sir Henry? Why?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Mr Holmes," Sir Henry replied, his lighter mood dissipating quickly, "but, by God, I hope that you can find out… poor Mrs Barrymore fainted dead away from shock when the thing appeared at the dining room window last week after dinner."

"Sir Henry, I shall apply all of my faculties to the problem," Holmes promised, gravely, "now, I think; little more can be accomplished this evening; I suggest that we retire for the night."

"Of course, Mr Holmes," Sir Henry nodded, in agreement, though he looked apprehensive, "I have taken the liberty of assigning you rooms in close proximity to my own… I believe Barrymore has taken up your things, so if you'll follow me…"

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Watson found himself in the same room that he had stayed in previously, and, once the initial warmth of familiarity had worn off, it brought back those terrible memories of his previous visit. Unconsciously, he rubbed the scar, distinct from the scars of the Jezail bullet that had almost killed him, on his left shoulder where Stapleton has shot him, with Lestrade's revolver. Watson's own service revolver was comfortably nestled in a holster beneath his left arm, under his jacket, and in easy reach.

The room was warm, with a coal fire smouldering in the grate, and his luggage already laid out neatly for him. He moved most of the items into his wardrobe, pausing only to pull his dressing gown on over his clothing, and he crossed to the window, pulling open the curtain. He could feel the cold from outside emanating through the glass and window frame, as he peered outside. It was snowing heavily, and the only light came from the windows of the house. Watson could hear the servants moving around downstairs, closing up the house for the night, and in the adjacent room, Holmes was pacing restlessly, as he did when deep in thought, no doubt smoking heavily.

Watson glanced around the room – Sir Henry was a generous host; there was a decanter on the worktop, and Watson picked it up, took out the stopper, and sniffed deeply. Brandy. Excellent. He poured a generous measure, and, grasping the arms of the chair, he dragged it over to the window. He snuffed out the lights in the room, leaving the low-burning fire, took one of the blankets from the bed, retrieved the brandy, and arranged himself in the armchair, from where he had an excellent view of the moor and the front grounds of Baskerville Hall. He took his revolver, laid it on the table next to him, and, taking a sip of the brandy, sat back to keep watch.

He did not even notice himself nodding off, but was snapped awake by a strangled cry of alarm. Without conscious thought of what he was doing, he snatched up his revolver, lunged for the door, and went crashing into Sir Henry's chambers. Holmes followed barely two paces behind, also fully dressed – apparently having also stayed up. Sir Henry was sitting bolt-upright in the bed, his face as white as the sheets he clenched in his thin fingers.

"The window!" he gasped.

Watson threw himself recklessly at the window – the curtain had not been drawn, and the window itself was tight-shut. He threw it wide open, and leaned out as far as he dared, peering for a good view.

"What do you see?" Holmes's voice came from behind him, also peering out into the darkness, "Watson! What do you see?"

"Nothing," Watson replied, quickly, "I'll check the grounds!"

Watson charged out of the room, almost colliding with Dr Mortimer, who was still brushing sleep from his eyes. Watson pointed to Sir Henry; "Take care of him!" he exclaimed, as he and Holmes went barrelling down the corridor, to the front door, which was bolted.

The two of them managed to get it open, and they plunged into the freezing snowstorm. They ran around the house to the back, where Sir Henry's bedroom was located, and came to a halt. Holmes glanced around quickly; there were no traces in the snow on the ground, which was at least six inches deep and unbroken, save for the tracks left by himself and Watson. There was no evidence of climbing equipment attached to the wall, nor was there anything immediately available to anyone wishing to climb the wall. Holmes peered upwards; he could see nothing immediate in the darkness and snowfall; he made a mental note to check again in daylight.

Behind Holmes, Watson was visually scanning the grounds; there was no sign of life at all, no tracks in the snow, no clear pathways a fleeing person could use to disguise their exit. Holmes glanced over and met his gaze in the light from the window; he shook his head slightly, and indicated to go back inside.

Back in the hall, they met Dr Mortimer coming down the stairs; "Well?" he said, expectantly.

"Nothing – on ground level, at least," Holmes replied, evenly, "How is Sir Henry?"

"Deeply shocked," Dr Mortimer replied, gravely, "I have given him a mild sedative to help him sleep."

"And we should all do the same," Holmes replied, with a half-smile, "come, we should retire – I profess that I am chilled to the bone from this terrible weather."

They made their way back upstairs, taking off their damp dressing gowns to be hung by their fires to dry. Watson reached his room first, bade them goodnight, and stepped inside. He frowned at a cold breeze in the room; the window was open. He did not recall opening it; perhaps it had been Dr Mortimer, looking out to see where they had gone? Tiredly, he reached out, and closed it quickly, shutting out the chilly air.

There was a spare dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, and he swapped it for his damp one, pulling it one gratefully. He combed his fingers through his snow-damp hair, realising that he was still shaking a little; either Sir Henry's white-faced fear had shaken him more than he thought, or the cold had permeated a little too much despite the relatively short exposure he had received. He eyed the brandy decanter, and decided, in his medical opinion, a good measure would be as effective as a mild sedative in helping him to get some sleep.

The decanter was on the table by the armchair near the window. He set his revolver down next to it, and poured a generous amount into the waiting glass, before standing by the window, peering out into the ice-fall that prevailed. He frowned; he could deduce nothing from the mysterious, almost supernatural circumstances. He had not seen the supposed phantom, that was true; but something had terrified Sir Henry almost to his wits' end; something he feared even more than the terrible beast-dog that had scarred his face and neck a few years hence.

Watson knew that Holmes had seen, or at least deduced, something as to how these terrors were being wrought on a man he thought of as his friend. He would have to speak to Holmes in the morning, despite suspecting that his friend, as always, would wait until the last minute to show his full hand. Watson held up the brandy, noting that his hand was shaking slightly, as he recalled the abject terror in Sir Henry's stark, pale face. He took a mouthful, and swallowed. Ah – it was good brandy, of course, though it was strangely sweet. The fiery taste warmed and steadied him. He finished the rest in one mouthful, noting again the sweetness, and made a mental note to ask Sir Henry – or at least Barrymore – for the name of the distiller.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness crashed over him, and Watson gasped, grabbing the arm of the chair for support. He felt his eyelids grow heavy as his chest constricted. Blindly, he reached out, and caught the windowsill. He tried to cry out, but the room spun, and it was as if the floor tipped beneath him. He went sprawling, but the darkness had taken his consciousness before he hit the floor.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes did not sleep. He went straight to his room, and picked up his pipe from where it still smouldered on the ledge above the fire place, where he had abandoned it to respond to Sir Henry's cry. He did not doubt that the man had seen something which had scared him – the skeletal puppet made up to pass for Beryl Stapleton. Clenching the pipe between his teeth, he resumed his restless pacing. He had no doubt that a puppet of some sort was in use, but he had yet to figure out the method of manipulation. It was either from above – the roof, perhaps – or from elsewhere – such as an adjoining room.

Holmes frowned at a gentle thump from Watson's room, which interrupted his train of thought. Bad enough that the man had seen fit to rearrange the furniture in his room earlier – and quite noisily at that – now he seemed to have dropped something fairly heavy in his carelessness.

Ignoring the noise, and hearing nothing further, Holmes continued to smoke and pace. He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that whoever was trying the scare away Sir Henry's servants, and yet keep the man here himself, was already within the household. He discounted the Barrymore couple – they were faithful servants, and both had apparently seen the spectre; Mrs Barrymore had even fainted, and Holmes could see no reason for Mr Barrymore to scare his wife to such an extent. He had also observed the careful, loyal devotion of both the butler and the cook to their young lord and master.

Could it be Perkins, then, the groom? Or could it be the two new members of staff – the maid, sullen Sally, or the heretofore unmet gardener, Jenkins? Or perhaps there was another, unknown agent, secreted in the house somewhere? Holmes decided that he and Watson would make a fully armed search of the house and grounds as soon as it was politely possible to do so after breakfast.

Pacing slowly, deep in thought, Holmes did not rest at all that night.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

The morning light was grey and dismal, and there were still frequent snow flurries. Heavy, grey clouds hung low over the moor, which was deeply blanketed in snow. Perkins had been out on horseback to check the roads, and deemed them impassable by cart, carriage or trap; Dr Mortimer requested, however, that his horse be saddled to allow him to ride home to his wife and medical practice, as he was certain that there were patients who would need his ministrations. Holmes, Sir Henry and Dr Mortimer shared a light breakfast of eggs, toast and porridge, though none of them did much more than pick at their food.

"I wonder what is keeping Dr Watson?" Sir Henry, who still appeared somewhat pale, "I seem to recall that he was greatly impressed with Mrs Barrymore's cooking… I cannot imagine that he would want to skip breakfast."

"Indeed," Holmes said, lightly, "gentlemen… if you will excuse me for a moment, I will see what is keeping the good doctor."

Holmes left the table, and went out into the hall. He hoped that Watson, tired from the journey and the late night sojourn around the grounds, had simply overslept. However… he did not go in for intuition or suspicions, but… he increased his pace, taking the stairs two at a time, quickening his long stride until he reached Watson's room, whereupon he knocked brusquely on the door. When there was no movement or sound from within, he tried again, before trying the door handle. The door swung open easily, and Holmes stepped fully into the room.

"Watson, I…" Holmes broke off, as his heart skipped a beat at the sight that met him; "Watson!"

Three paces carried him swiftly across the room as he dropped to his knees beside the unconscious form of his friend, even as his eyes swept to room quickly, absorbing everything in a second. He noted the still-damp dressing gown hanging on the door, the fire burned out in the grate and the empty glass on the floor not far from Watson's limp hand. The window was wide open, and a great deal of snow had drifted inside. Holmes turned towards the door, hoping that his voice would carry.

"Dr Mortimer!" he bellowed, "Your assistance, if you please!"

He reached out and snatched up the glass, taking a sniff – brandy, but with an odd undercurrent of sweetness unfamiliar to the usual whiff of the alcohol. So; Watson had re-entered the room late last night, exchanged his damp dressing gown for his spare one, gone to the window, and, obviously chilled or shaken, he had poured himself a drink. Holmes deduced all this even as he was checking for a pulse. There were footsteps in the corridor outside, and Sir Henry appeared, his face slightly flushed, with Dr Mortimer directly behind him.

"Mr Holmes!" Sir Henry exclaimed.

"My God, what happened?" Mortimer pushed passed the stunned lord, and dropped besides Watson, as Holmes recounted his deduction.

"…I would say that the drink has been… drugged," Holmes finished, "Dr Mortimer, I believe Watson brought his medical bag with him… ah, yes, here it is."

He retrieved the bag; Mortimer hesitated only briefly at the professional courtesy of not rifling through another's equipment, before opening the bag carefully with his right hand, even as he took a pulse with his left.

"He is alive, yet completely unresponsive," Holmes reported, quickly, "I would hope that it is merely a sedative…"

"His pulse is weak, but fairly regular," Mortimer reported, "let's get him onto the bed."

Holmes had already noticed that the bed had not been slept in, even as Dr Mortimer was pulling back the covers. Holmes carefully rolled Watson onto his back, lifted him carefully, and carried him over to the bed, laying him down. Mortimer reached for the other doctor's hand, taking it within his own for a moment, and then reaching out to check his temperature.

"He is cold, but not feverish or hypothermic, thankfully," Mortimer commented, "Sir Henry; I should be grateful if you would summon the maid to make up a fire; this room is particularly cold."

Sir Henry nodded quickly, and ducked out of the room, shouting for Barrymore and the maid. Holmes moved carefully around the room, observing everything, as Dr Mortimer kept his attentions on his patient. The room was exceptionally cold; the fire had gone out, yet the coals had not burnt up. The carpet around the window was damp, yet there was no smell of alcohol. The snow on the window-ledge outside had been disturbed, enough that the snowfall in the night had not been enough to cover it up. Holmes frowned, and allowed his great mind to put everything neatly into place.

"We returned from outside; it was cold and wet. Watson entered the room and automatically changed from his damp dressing gown into a clean and dry one. He placed the revolver on the table, so that he could pour himself a drink; he did not detect the presence of a strong sedative in the brandy glass. I doubt it was he who opened the window."

"How can you be sure it was in the glass?" Mortimer murmured, as he searched through Watson's medical bag.

"The glass has an unusually sweet aroma," Holmes replied, absently, "that aroma is lacking from the decanter."

Holmes returned to the bed, and frowned down at Watson's recumbent form, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Mortimer had a stethoscope out, listening carefully. He eventually slipped it off, and turned to Holmes.

"Doe he usually carry chloroform with him?" Mortimer asked, curiously.

"I believe so," Holmes nodded, "along with ether, morphine, and various other chemicals. Unfortunately, Watson's experience as a surgeon is frequently called upon in our line of work."

"There is an empty compartment in the doctor's bag, where one might expect to find such a bottle," Mortimer pointed out, "It is a fluid ounce bottle – Mr Holmes, anything over a point-three-five fluid ounce – a tiny amount! …Usually proves fatal."

"Then – there was someone within the house, directly involved in the campaign against Sir Henry," Holmes extrapolated, "we, in responding to Sir Henry's cry, forced that person into hiding. They then entered Watson's room, presumably to hide; while we exited the house and went around the back, this person – fearful of being observed by you, Sir Henry or another member of staff – concealed themselves in this room. They noticed Watson's bag, and – for whatever reason – saw fit to avail themselves of a particularly powerful anaesthetic. However, we returned somewhat sooner than they had expected; this person had no time to escape. They therefore drugged Watson's drink, and concealed themselves until he was asleep, before escaping…"

Holmes crossed to the window, and flung it open, allowing a blast of arctic air to sweep the room, despite Mortimer's yelp of protest. Holmes leaned out, swept some of the snow from the ledge, snorted in annoyance, and closed the window.

"Scratches on the stone ledge indicate that our person was equipped for a climb, with a rope and grappling hook," Holmes reported, brushing melting snow from his hands, "unfortunately, the overnight snow has obscured their footprints."

"Then you are correct; there is a mortal force behind the apparent supernatural apparition," Mortimer commented, as Sir Henry appeared with his new, recalcitrant maid.

"Get a fire started in here," Sir Henry ordered, "Is he… alright?"

Holmes nodded, again crossing to Watson's side; "I have no doubt that whoever drugged him may have some medical knowledge, and had hoped that in giving him such a small amount they would ensure that Watson merely slept through the escape and would be none-the-wiser come morning… unfortunately for that person, whether Watson had awoken on time or not, I have no doubt that the good doctor would have been aware that he had been drugged; he has had cause to be anaesthetised in the past, and he has frequently complained afterwards of the resultant headache and confusion that accompanies the drug."

"He is extremely lucky; it is too easy to overdose on liquid chloroform; one would normally rely on the effects of the vapours," Mortimer responded.

Holmes shook his head; "No. Whoever is behind this, their wish is to maintain the façade of a phantom, despite their very physical presence. If they had attacked Watson directly, he would have immediately reported a human assailant. Similarly had they… ah… killed him, we would instantly have known of a mortal presence…"

He was interrupted by a low moan, and he was immediately leaning over the bed, a slight frown of concern on his otherwise expressionless features.

"Watson?"

Another low groan; Holmes glanced across at Mortimer, who nodded encouragingly; "He's coming around."

"Is there any kind of stimulant that you can give him?" Holmes asked, quietly, "I find that I will be… in need of his assistance this morning."

"Not without putting undue strain on his heart," Mortimer replied, "Although… Sir Henry; may I suggest that a pot of strong coffee be made up? We may yet get him up on his feet within an hour or two."

"Right away," Sir Henry nodded, "Sally, see to it please."

The maid stood up, abandoning her efforts with the fire, and walked out. Sir Henry sighed in frustration, eyeing the cold fireplace. He was saved from apology moments later, when Barrymore appeared.

"Is everything alright, sir?" he enquired, raising one eyebrow as Watson groaned again, stirring slightly on the bed.

"Dr Watson was deliberately drugged by an intruder, we believe," Sir Henry said, shortly, "Barrymore – can you get a fire going in the grate? Our new maid seems unable to accomplish that feat."

Barrymore eyed the fireplace distastefully, but acquiesced. Holmes returned his attention to Watson; colour was beginning to return to his face, and he stirred slightly. Dr Mortimer leaned forward, murmuring encouragements, until Watson finally opened his eyes. Holmes smiled in relief at the confused look the doctor gave him. Watson mumbled something, winced, and raised an unsteady hand to his head.

"C… Chloroform?" he muttered.

"An accurate diagnosis, doctor," Holmes said, dryly, but smiling faintly, "good to see you back with us."

Groggily, Watson tried to sit up, but Mortimer pushed him back down; "Rest a short while more, doctor. Sally has gone to fetch us some coffee; if you can drink some, it might help."

"Fire's lit, sir," Barrymore reported, straightening up, "should warm up in here in no time."

"Thank you, Barrymore," Sir Henry nodded, as he sank into the nearby armchair, "much appreciated…"

Holmes glanced across at the young lord, and the vaguely worried look that Barrymore was giving him. Such concern was impossible to fake, and he was reassured that the loyal serving couple were not to blame for their predicament. Eventually, Sally reappeared with the coffee, dumped the tray on the table, and walked out. Barrymore had the good grace to look embarrassed, as he stepped forward.

"Allow me, sir," he bowed.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

Less than two hours later, Dr Mortimer waved his goodbyes from the back of his shire horse, in a borrowed saddle, as he began his journey back home. Holmes, Sir Henry and Watson, now back on his feet, returned to the house.

"He has been a great friend to me these past few weeks," Sir Henry murmured, "Mr Holmes, I am truly sorry to impose on you once more, but I fear I really do need your assistance. Apparently Jenkins and Perkins both caught sight of the… apparition… floating at my window last night, as they were patrolling the grounds. They swear to seeing no person, only a floating, skeletal figure at the second storey, illuminated with a ghostly glow…"

"They saw a puppet, soaked in phosphorous," Holmes sniffed, "and they saw no figure because they were so transfixed they observed nothing else."

"Either way, Jenkins left to return to the village this morning without a further word, and Perkins made an excuse about a sick relative to take a horse and left for London half an hour ago. My staff is deserting me in droves, Mr Holmes, and I am unable to sleep the night for fear of that terrible vision!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Sir Henry," Watson said, tired, yet soothingly, "come. Let us take some tea in the sitting room and discuss the matter."

"I have a different proposal," Holmes interjected, "Sir Henry; please summon your remaining staff to the sitting room. Dr Watson and I will carry out a thorough search of Baskerville Hall in its entirety. I would ask you and your attendants to remain together until the search is complete."

Sir Henry hesitated, but eventually nodded; "It would certainly serve to put my mind at rest…"

Holmes gave him a tight smile, and Sir Henry nodded quickly, leaving to summon Sally, along with Mr and Mrs Barrymore. Holmes turned to Watson, who looked pale, but alert.

"How are you feeling, Watson?"

"Quite well, thank you, Holmes," Watson replied, politely, with a smile; "I can feel the effects of both the chloroform and the coffee – the latter will preside until the former wears off."

Holmes returned his smile; "We shall retrieve the household keys from Barrymore, and then our hunt begins. Watson! The game's afoot, I know it!"

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

Baskerville Hall was by no means small, and to search every room, nook and cranny, under every bed, in every cupboard, was a Herculean task. But still, it was one that the two men undertook, with grim determination. Sir Henry and his staff confined themselves to the dining room, where they whiled away the day in boredom, as Holmes and Watson searched the house. They did not stop for food or rest, and backtracked only once to collect lamps as the house began to grow dark. The night grew darker, and colder, and stretched into the early hours of the morning. The snow, which had been falling all day, returned with a vicious, howling wind as night began to fall, and the two men reached the very top attics of the Hall.

"By my reckoning, we are almost immediately above yours and Sir Henry's rooms," Holmes murmured, to Watson, as they entered the middle attic, which was crammed with boxes and furniture; "Be alert, Watson, and keep your revolver to hand."

Watson nodded silently, creeping forwards, as Holmes began peering behind boxes and moving furniture. Watson glanced around slowly, and something struck him as odd. What was it? He cursed his slow mind…

"Holmes," he hissed the detective's name, raising his lamp and peering into the darkness.

"What is it?" Holmes straightened up quickly, alert.

"…I'm not sure," Watson admitted, "But… these boxes…"

Holmes looked around quickly.

"These boxes have been recently moved," he said, quickly, "pushed over here, for no discernable purpose, and yet – aha! Blankets! A hidden, warm bed, in the coldest part of the house. This person is not staff, yet the staff are providing for him…"

"Like Selden…" Watson murmured, "Surely not the Barrymores again…?"

"We shall reserve judgment until we are in full possession of the facts," Holmes announced, turning to face Watson, "until then…"

"A wise move, Mr Holmes!" hissed a sudden voice.

"What the-?" Holmes turned, and momentarily froze.

Coming towards him, with unnatural speed, flying through the air, was a spectral skeleton wearing a dress that glowed green in the darkness. With long brown hair flailing behind it and arms outstretched, it was coming straight at Holmes.

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

"Holmes!" Watson cried out, breaking the spell.

The skeletal figure crashed into the detective, sending him sprawling on the floor. There was the sound of running footsteps, and a shadowy figure dashed passed them in the darkness.

"Holmes! Are you injured?"

"Watson! Get after him!" Holmes was struggling to extricate himself from the skeleton, which was clearly inanimate, "I am unhurt, I assure you!"

Watson needed no further encouragement; he took off after their mysterious assailant. He could hear the footsteps just ahead of him on the staircase. He followed and caught a glimpse of a lean, lithe figure clad entirely in black, with greasy black hair. The figure, a wiry, athletic man, was already heading for the main staircase. Watson levelled his revolver.

"I am armed!" he shouted, "Stop, or I will shoot!"

The man paid no heed, and lunged down the staircase. Watson swore, knowing that he could not shoot an unarmed man in the back. He took off again, in time to see the front door flung open. Damn, the man was fast! Watson recklessly leapt the last few steps, cursing when the impact jarred the old injury to his leg. He stumbled forwards, out through the front door – the snow was falling heavily, but he could see the man in the light cast from the windows of the house. He was heading for the stables. Watson stumbled after him, revolver in hand, and paused at the open stable door.

"Come out!" he called, warily, "There's no where for you to… ah-!"

Watson threw himself aside just in time as one of Sir Henry's prized hunters came barrelling out of the stable at a full-on gallop – the shadowy man was riding bare-back, and doing it well. Watson gritted his teeth; he could ride, and ride well… but he, too, had no time to saddle up. He made his decision, and picked the nearest horse; a high-spirited steeplechaser. Watson grabbed the horse's mane, and swung himself up awkwardly as the horse whickered and fidgeted, though did not bolt. Watson took a deep breath, made certain that he was well seated, and kicked the mare into a gallop.

"Yah!" he shouted, and they were propelled in the snowy night.

~*~


	10. Chapter 10

"I am unhurt, I assure you!" Holmes shouted at the stunned doctor.

He was rewarded to hear running footsteps as Watson ran after his unknown attacker. Holmes struggled to free himself from the skeleton, and paused to examine it. He could now see, in the dress, small hooks and trailing wires; the dress and skull had been painted in phosphorous, as he had guessed, and the wildly flowing hair was a wig glued to the skull, which for all appearances was real.

Holmes scrambled to his feet, wincing at a dull ache in the back of he head; he had hit the floor a little too hard, but he was not concussed – it would merely be an irritating bruise. He ran through the loft and down the stairs, almost colliding with Sir Henry.

"Holmes!" Sir Henry gasped, "What's going on? We heard shouting!"

"We discovered your assailant hiding in the lofts," Holmes replied, "stay here, with your staff – Watson has gone after him!"

Without further pause, Holmes leapt through the wide-open front door. There were tracks in the snow, two pairs, easy to track. The snow was falling, thick and fast, driven by a freezing wind. Holmes ignored the icy conditions, following the marks in the snow. He found his way to the stable, where the door stood ajar and the horses in the stalls where snorting in fright, rolling the whites of their eyes.

It did not take Holmes's genius to work out that their attacker had taken a horse to escape and that Watson had foolishly followed. Horse shoe prints led straight towards the yew hedge surrounding the grounds; Holmes ran to the front gates and around the hedge until he found the trail on the other side. Watson was an excellent rider, despite his war-time injuries, but on a night like this… Holmes could not ride, and for that he now cursed himself. He stood there, in the dark, freezing snow-storm, and shouted his frustration into the wind as the snow filled the tracks and obscured him from tracking them.

"Watson!"

Holmes stayed there, staring out into the whirling storm, until there was a crunch of footsteps in the snow, and a heavy overcoat was draped around his shoulders.

"Mr Holmes!"

It was Sir Henry, his expression pinched and worried.

"Mr Holmes," he said, pleadingly, "please come inside – it's freezing out here…"

"Watson…"

"Come back inside, Mr Holmes…"

There was no other recourse. Holmes allowed himself to be led back inside. Outside, the snow-storm raged on.

~*~


	11. Chapter 11

Watson was snow-blind and confused. He had lost all sense of direction, but even the heavy snow could not muffle entirely the sound and shadowy shape of the rider ahead of him. Watson spurred on his mount, kicking back his heels to whip it into frenzy. Snow flakes stung his eyes and whipped across his face like tiny razors - he hunkered down behind the neck of the horse, for what little protection it could offer him as it ploughed on, struggling to speed on through the thick, fallen snow.

Suddenly, the mount of the man ahead stumbled in the deep snow, pitched, and fell with a loud whinny of terror. Watson's own horse could not stop in time. Its fore-legs tangled with those of the fallen beast, and it gave a scream of fear as it fell forwards.

Watson was pitched forwards over its neck; he managed a cry of alarm, before landing heavily in the snow. Bruised and winded, he rolled onto his knees, and stumbled to his feet. Ploughing through shin-deep drifts, Watson fought his way back to the horses. He groaned aloud in despair; his mount was dead, its neck broken from the awkward fall.

The other horse was whickering in pain and fear, its eyes rolling white as it struggled on the ground. Watson could not bear to see anyone or anything in distress – a cursory examination told him that one of the horse's legs was badly broken. He sighed; Sir Henry would be distraught at the loss of two favoured steeds. He cocked the revolver, took steady aim at the horse's temple, and put it out of its misery.

It was only when the blow came from behind that Watson realised that, in his concern for the horse, he had forgotten about its rider.

~*~


	12. Chapter 12

"You!" Holmes strode into the sitting room angrily, throwing off Sir Henry's overcoat, glowering down at the maid, Sally, "Who is the man that you have kept so carefully concealed in the loft?"

Sally glanced away, chewing on her bottom lip. Sir Henry stared in amazement; Mrs Barrymore clapped her hands together to her mouth and gazed at her niece in surprise, while Mr Barrymore placed one hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Oh, Sally," Mr Barrymore sighed, "What have you done, you silly girl?"

"He said he loved me," the sallow-faced girl replied, quietly, a tear running down her face.

Holmes took a deep breath. Emotional women were not his forte. Luckily…

"Sally," Sir Henry sat down opposite to the tearful maid, "tell us everything."

~*~


	13. Chapter 13

Watson yelped in shock, turning, as his attacker grabbed for the revolver. Watson managed to force it high, but to his surprise his attacker kicked out, catching him hard in the stomach. Winded and gasping, Watson fell to his knees, as the revolver was torn from his grasp.

Dragging in a lungful of air, Watson did not hesitate – he lunged forwards, rugby-tackling his opponent's knees. Bringing him down, Watson scrabbled for purchase on the weapon. The young man was extremely quick and strong, and landed at least two good blows, loosening the doctor's grip.

Watson fought valiantly, but could not prevent a gasp as the gun discharged loudly. There was a deep, burning sensation in his upper right arm. He gritted his teeth, lashed out, and grabbed the gun. Locked in an intense struggle, Watson felt the cold sapping his strength. Suddenly, through the snow fall, he caught a glimpse of his attacker's face, and froze in sudden shock.

"No-!" he exclaimed, "It can't be-!"

His assailant lashed out, catching Watson a hefty blow to his temple. Reeling, he fell backwards into the snow, as the man leapt up, and took to his heels, rapidly disappearing into the blizzard.

Watson scrabbled backwards in the snow, shocked to his core, mindful of a deep ache in his arm and the throbbing in his temple. The wound in his arm was not deep - a cursory glance told him that the bullet had barely winged him, and he counted that to be his first piece of good luck since arrival in Dartmoor. He still had his revolver, but he was now snow-soaked and wind-chilled. It was also a bad sign that he was beginning to struggle to think straight.

Backing up slowly, assessing his options, he knocked against one of the bodies of the horses, and turned in horror. A flashback rose in his mind, unbidden – in the war, snipers had always targeted the horses – and he shook himself suddenly. He was not in the baking Afghan desert, he was on a freezing, snow-covered moor, with no ride back to the Hall, and, worse still; no protective clothing… and little idea of the way back.

The snow, whipped into a frenzy by the wind, stung his face like needles as he staggered around vaguely, trying to get his bearings, his left hand clamped to the wound in his right arm, the blood feeling oddly warm to his ice-cold fingers.

The blizzard was rapidly disguising the tracks in the snow left by their galloping horses, and Watson struck out in desperation. He had to make it back to Baskerville Hall; if he did not, he would freeze to death in a very short space of time.

~*~


	14. Chapter 14

Holmes sent Barrymore to retrieve his pipe, and then smoked it non-stop, pacing the sitting room restlessly. Mrs Barrymore retired to the kitchen, sobbing something about being unable to cope with anymore wayward relatives.

Sir Henry poured Sally a brandy, and got her to tell the story through her choking sobs. Holmes automatically filtered out the crying and the emotion, disseminating only the pure facts. Sir Henry was fighting to get the details out of the distraught maid; Holmes wished Watson were here to lend that friendly smile, a gentle word, and possibly a sedative... Still, eventually, the truth came out…

Sally, grief-stricken over the death of her mother, had been sent by her unloving father to stay with her mother's sister, Mrs Barrymore. Alone, and friendless in the village, she had been walking back to the Hall one day when a young man (tall, thin, dark-haired, pale-faced, handsome, etc) had offered to escort her part way. He had been charming, and she, lonely, afraid, disfigured by childhood pox, had fallen for a kind word and a gentle smile. They met several more times, and he, pleading cold and poverty, had persuaded her to hide him in the house less than a week later. Almost immediately afterwards, the haunting had begun, and Sally, so infatuated with her new lover, and his promises of taking over the Baskerville fortune along with the abandoned Hall, had swept her up in a romantic whirl. She had brought him food, wine, clothes and blankets, while he had maintained his campaign of terror.

But who was this man? Sir Henry had asked; He's the man who's going to marry me and make me a lady, she had replied, stupidly, defiantly, tearfully.

Holmes snorted, dismissively, and Sally went scampering back to the kitchen, where she would no doubt get a tongue-lashing from Mrs Barrymore, followed by a hot meal, a stiff drink and an early night.

"Light the lamps outside, Barrymore," Sir Henry ordered, "hell; let's get the whole house lit up!"

Barrymore nodded and went to obey. Sir Henry crossed the room to join Holmes, who was gazing out of the window at the snow-swept moors beyond. Holmes disliked having his views obstructed; hated that this weather robbed him of all chance of tracking a friend who should otherwise have been so easily located; and worst of all, he loathed the inactivity.

"Who is this man?" Sir Henry said, at last, "Who is he, who would dare to try to drive me from the home of my ancestors?"

"At this time, I do not have sufficient evidence to deduce his exact identity," Holmes responded, his voice calm even as his mind raged in parallel to the outside storm, "I must profess, Sir Henry, I find my thoughts preoccupied…"

The young lord with the scarred face inclined his head slightly in understanding, as they gazed out of the window. The snowfall had abated somewhat, as the sickly grey light of dawn struggled to break through the stranglehold of night. Suddenly, Holmes let out a sharp cry.

"There, Sir Henry! Do you see? There!"

"I see nothing…" Sir Henry protested, but Holmes had already swept passed him, dropping his pipe on the windowsill carelessly, as he flung open the front door and strode out into the deep snow.

Sir Henry paused only to grab his heavy overcoat, pulling it on quickly as he followed the detective outside quickly. Holmes practically ran to the gate, and was through it before Sir Henry could call out.

~*~


	15. Chapter 15

Heedless of the man trailing behind him, Holmes strode through the deep snow, feeling the biting cold as it soaked through his trousers. In places, it was nearly three feet deep; such had been the level of fall over the past few days. The dark spot that his keen eyes had detected from the distance of the house now grew closer; becoming more familiar, a more welcome sight… Holmes closed the distance quickly, and reached out…

"Watson!" he exclaimed, "My dear fellow…"

His delight soon gave way to trepidation; for although he had only been out on the moor for a couple of hours, Watson was horribly pale, almost blue with cold, and he stumbled forwards with awkward, shuffling steps, as if he no longer remembered how to walk.

"H-H-Holmes?" he stuttered out, through clenched teeth.

"Yes, Watson," Holmes grabbed him quickly, supporting him, looping one of the doctor's arms over his own thin shoulders, "come on, old chap; we need to get you warmed up…"

"H-Holmes," Watson stammered, feebly, "I-I-I s-s-saw him…"

"Hush, Watson," Holmes chided him, doing his best to hurry back towards the warmth of the Hall, "save your strength… Sir Henry! Your assistance, if you would be so kind!"

"Good God," Sir Henry caught up with them, and, thinking quickly, took off his overcoat and fastened it around Watson, even as he took the doctor's other arm over his shoulders.

Between Holmes and Sir Henry, they managed to half-drag, half-carry the semi-conscious doctor back into the house, where a shocked Barrymore was waiting for them.

"I'll have my wife bring hot drinks, sir," he said, quickly, "there's a good fire blazing in the sitting room – I'll fetch some blankets."

The butler quickly disappeared, as Holmes and Sir Henry carried Watson into the sitting room. Sir Henry dragged the couch closer to the fire, whereupon Holmes gently laid Watson down, taking one of the doctor's hands in his.

"He is hypothermic," Holmes frowned, "we must get him warmed up – and quickly!"

"Mr Holmes…" there was an edge of worry in Sir Henry's voice, enough to cause Holmes to glance up enquiringly, "… I'm fairly sure that this isn't my blood…"

Holmes saw the red mark on the other man's shirt, and repressed the urge to swear.

"Watson? Watson, can you hear me? You must stay awake!" Holmes called, to the unresponsive doctor.

Barrymore reappeared, with an armful of blankets, which were quickly shaken out and wrapped around Watson, who remained only semi-aware throughout.

"Give him a little brandy!" Sir Henry cried, "Surely that will warm him?"

Holmes ignored the other man as he sat on the edge of the sofa beside his half-frozen friend, and took Watson's right hand in both of his, horrified by the icy chill he felt in the fingers. His keen gaze travelled up Watson's arm, noting the tear in his jacket and the bloodstains, taking in the pallor of his face, blue-tinged lips, and the dark, livid bruise to his temple.

"S-s-s-saw him," Watson suddenly hissed, through clenched teeth, "H-Holmes, I s-s-saw him…"

"Who, Watson? Who did you see?"

Watson turned to him, shivering, a fearful expression on his face; "S-S-Stapleton!"

~*~


	16. Chapter 16

Holmes bit back a retort at the impossibility of such a ridiculous notion, as he realised that Watson was again drifting into unconsciousness.

"Watson!" he snapped, as harshly as he could, "You must stay awake!"

Hating himself for doing so, Holmes grasped Watson's uninjured arm firmly, and pulled him quickly into a seated position. Watson was still shivering, uncontrollably, and he seemed unable to focus properly on anything.

"Watson!" Holmes gave him a gentle shake, and this prompted the doctor to look up.

"Holmes?" he murmured, confused, "What the devil-?"

"You are suffering from hypothermia, my dear doctor," Holmes said, slowly, "you must remain conscious."

"Don't... don't be... ridiculous," Watson slurred, "just...just let me sleep..."

His head began to droop forwards, and Holmes looked up at Sir Henry, who stared back helplessly.

"There's no way we'll be able to reach Dr. Mortimer in this weather," Sir Henry said, as he sat down on the settee beside the doctor, pulling one of the blankets around the other man's shoulders, "Barrymore!"

The butler appeared quickly at the summons, his eyes slightly wide, but otherwise he was composed, given the events of the evening.

"Sir?"

"Fetch the doctor's medical bag from his room. The least we can do is to bandage his wound."

"Sir."

Barrymore disappeared quickly, as his wife suddenly appeared with two more blankets.

"I've warmed these by the fire in the kitchen," she said, quickly, handing one to Holmes.

She shook out the blanket she held, wrapping it quickly around the still-shivering Watson, before she took the second one from Holmes and wrapped it over the doctor's legs.

"Thank you, Mrs Barrymore," Sir Henry said, gratefully, "You may... you may tell Sally that she can remain in my service, but... but she must not betray my trust again, is that understood?"

"Oh, yes, Sir Henry," Mrs Barrymore flushed, and curtseyed, "thank you, Sir. Very much."

"Everyone deserves a second chance, Mrs Barrymore," Sir Henry gave her a wan smile, "please... go and see to your niece. And, please - fetch us some hot tea."

Mrs Barrymore left quickly, and Holmes turned his attention back to Watson. The doctor's shivering seemed to be abating slightly, and Holmes breathed a sigh of relief. Barrymore arrived with the medical bag, and Holmes opened it, sifting through it quickly.

"Can you treat the wound?" Sir Henry asked, anxiously.

"I am not a medical man," Holmes admitted, as he drew out bandages, "I certainly hope that it does not require stitches; I fear that is beyond me. But I am capable of applying a rudimentary dressing..."

Holmes worked as quickly as he could to bandage the wound, hating how his hands shook as he did so, before once more pulling the blankets around Watson. He wiped blood from his fingers on a scrap of bandage, and flung the cast-off cloth into the fire. The warm coverings and close proximity to the hearth seemed to be doing the trick; the doctor was shivering a great deal less than he had been, and some colour was returning to his face.

Mrs Barrymore arrived with hot drinks, and Holmes managed to persuade Watson to drink two cups of hot, sweet tea, despite his feeble protests. He seemed to be somewhat more coherent, although Holmes still had to hold on to him to keep him sitting upright.

"I think it is safe to let him sleep now," Holmes said, quietly, at last, as Sir Henry stood to allow him to lie Watson down on the settee; "though I shall stay with him and make sure that his condition does not deteriorate..."

"A wise suggestion," Sir Henry replied, "I think... I think I shall keep you company."

~*~


	17. Chapter 17

The sun rose slowly, but failed to cut through the low-hanging cloud entirely. Nobody felt much like breakfast, but there was hot coffee in abundance throughout the morning. Holmes pulled an armchair up near the couch, and did not move from that spot for most of the day.

Minutes stretched out into hours; hours stretched the day into night and back to day again. Holmes did not leave the chair, but dozed fitfully, as the other members of the household drifted around him. Eventually, Holmes snapped awake, suddenly, every sense alert, though uncertain what had awoken him. And then he realised, and he smiled.

"Ah," he said, softly, leaning forwards in the chair, "it is good to see you awake."

"Holmes," Watson whispered, hoarsely, "I am so sorry… he… he got away…"

Holmes frowned slightly; "Watson. You need to rest. You were injured… but I am afraid I must ask you this. Did you see who attacked you?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe him?"

"He looked… like Jack Stapleton. But… it wasn't him…"

"What do you mean?"

"Your methods… his face… wrong shape. He… he disguised himself… to look more like… Stapleton…"

Holmes leaned back in the chair, as Watson broke off with a groan, shivering slightly under the blankets. Holmes's great mind began to turn over the problem, and, slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place…

~*~


	18. Chapter 18

It was several days before Watson was back on his feet; the snow had begun to clear, and Dr Mortimer had returned, bringing with him Perkins, as soon as the road was passable, to retrieve his trap. He has been shocked to hear of the events that had taken place that night, and had redressed Watson's wounded arm, though Watson had refused all offers of a sling. He was still pale and drawn, with the early symptoms of a pretty nasty cold, but Holmes could wait no longer. Over dinner one evening, he addressed his audience; Watson, Sir Henry, and Dr Mortimer.

"Gentlemen, I believe that I have deduced the nature of our assailant, though his identity remains unclear to me," he announced, after they had finished their meal, "I shall speak plainly, Sir Henry; you have been the victim of a very creative, if rather dull-witted, conman."

"I'd be grateful Mr Holmes, if you would tell us your discoveries," the American replied, leaning forward with interest.

"The man we seek is approximately five feet and eleven inches tall – that much, I deduced from the length of his stride from footprints in the dust in the loft, and those in the snow the night he took flight. He is athletic, and strong – that much is evidenced by his ability to climb across window ledges, and up onto the roof to manipulate his puppet, making it appear to float at your window, lengthening or shortening the wire depending on the height of the window. He does not smoke, but he drinks somewhat – the bed linen in the loft smelt distinctly of alcohol, no doubt supplied to him by the poor maid..."

Holmes paced the room as he continued; "He is an able horseman, and is probably a successful con-artist; I would say that he has previously devised similar schemes to scare wealthy people from their homes, allowing him to rob them at his leisure. He is educated - it is likely that he is a doctor, or at least has some medical knowledge - and he is creative. He is violent, and may even have killed before, although he detests confrontation; even though you were wounded, Watson, he preferred to run from you on the moor, rather than risk a fight with you. He has disguised himself as Stapleton, despite being slightly too short. He intended to scare you with his puppet, and, if that did not work, he would appear to you as Jack Stapleton to scare you…"

"It would probably have worked," Sir Henry shuddered, "why, though?"

"Purely for financial gain," Holmes replied, "he would scare you from your home, and then either rob it or, had you fled the country completely, he might have posed as a relative or forged title deeds in his own name, to take over your estate. I would surmise that until now he has limited himself to lesser targets, but he recently found out about your misfortunate incident with Stapleton and the hound… most likely through the news reports. Watson has yet to romanticise and serialise the incident for his faithful Strand magazine readers."

"Holmes," Watson said, warningly.

Holmes dipped an apologetic smile, and continued; "I suspect that our man believes that Watson is dead and that we are none the wiser as to his identity. I also believe that he has done his research; he managed to mock up a skeleton in similar appearance to Beryl Stapleton…"

"That poor woman," Sir Henry murmured, mournfully, as Watson nodded in downcast agreement.

"Indeed," Holmes inclined his head slightly, "but it also means that we can locate his base of operation."

"Really?" Dr Mortimer was incredulous, "Then where is he?"

However, Watson had been following Holmes's train of thought. Holmes glanced across at his companion, and nodded, as Watson replied; "He's at Merripit House."

~*~


	19. Chapter 19

Dr Mortimer had no qualms about offering the use of his trap. Sir Henry ordered Perkins to hitch up Dr Mortimer's Shire horse, and the vehicle was made ready. Dr Mortimer and Sir Henry sat up front, as Holmes and Watson sat on the passenger seat. Holmes, Watson and Sir Henry all carried revolvers; Dr Mortimer demurred from action but promised to be on hand to provide transport and medical assistance in case of injury.

"Take us past Merripit House," Holmes ordered, "we will dismount around the corner and work our way back. I do not want our man to see us coming; I believe him to be armed, and I do not want to give him the opportunity to even the odds…"

Watson suppressed a shiver, though not enough to prevent Holmes from giving him a concerned look. Watson glanced away, smothering a cough, as the achingly familiar sight of Merripit House rolled into view. Watson averted his eyes; he had sore memories of that place, most of all of the sight of an innocent woman, brutalised to death by her sadistic husband…

"I would take it from the state of repair that no-one has tenanted the house since… since our last visit?" Holmes asked, carefully.

"It has been allowed to fall into ruin," Dr Mortimer confirmed, "the villagers mutter that the place is cursed… haunted, even."

"It is haunted only by a ghost of flesh and blood," Holmes declared, "this is far enough, doctor – we must now double back, and spring our trap…"

Dr Mortimer reined the horse to a halt obediently, allowing them to dismount.

"Continue back to the village," Holmes ordered, "summon the local constable, and return in all due haste, doctor!"

"Of course," Dr Mortimer nodded, "please be careful – all of you!"

He encouraged the horse into a canter, and the three other men watched as the trap went bouncing down the track. Watson and Sir Henry automatically turned to Holmes for guidance, and the detective led them carefully through the undergrowth back to the very edge of Merripit House.

Watson shuddered at the sight of the place, unable to take his eyes off the outbuildings in particular, recalling with clarity how he had cut the body of Beryl Stapleton from the cruel noose tied by her callous, now-dead husband. Holmes spared him a glance, and Watson nodded, drawing his revolver; he was ready. Sir Henry also nodded; he carried a small, silver pistol. Holmes remained unarmed, and the three of them advanced slowly towards the back door. Holmes picked the lock, and the door creaked open on obnoxiously loud hinges.

There was a long moment of hesitation, before Watson ducked into the house, staying low. He recalled the layout easily enough, and slowly made his way down the stairs to the sitting room. Memories assailed him. There, the wall against which Inspector Lestrade had been thrown by the enraged Stapleton; and over there, there were still traces of Watson's own blood on the wall, faded to an old, dark brown stain… He continued to creep forwards, ears alert for any sound. He heard something in the kitchen, and saw Holmes stiffen, stopping where he stood.

They froze like that for a long moment, before Holmes nodded again, his grey eyes holding a message of caution. Watson advanced slowly towards the kitchen; there was someone in there, but there were no other sounds or movement. Watson glanced across at Holmes, who was frowning slightly at the kitchen door.

"Sir, we number three to one," Holmes announced, suddenly, "we are armed, and you have no escape; I suggest you lay down your weapon and step out here…"

A low chuckle answered them, and a hoarse voice called back; "My, my – the famous Sherlock Holmes. When my London scout warned me that you were on your way to Dartmoor, I should have known my little game was over… too great an intellect is yours to fall for a simple puppet-ghost!"

The man slowly emerged from the kitchen, his arms relaxed and by his sides, and he was smiling slightly as he stepped forwards. Holmes could see the tip of a knife hidden up one sleeve even as he noted the passing similarity to Stapleton. The man was too short and swarthy to be an actual relative; he had darkened his hair with boot-polish or some cheap dye enough to fool a casual observer, but Holmes could see the lighter tint of his roots. His accent spoke of an educated upbringing, but his eyes were malicious and there was a hard set to his jaw that indicated rougher inclinations of character. Holmes braced himself; he doubted that this man would surrender himself to arrest peacefully.

"You are to be arrested for the harassment of Sir Henry Baskerville," Holmes informed him, "and for the assault on Dr. Watson, along with a number of other crimes, I suspect. I suggest you accompany us outside."

"I think not," the man replied, and his hand moved.

Holmes cursed himself for his slow-thinking – he had forgotten about the bottle of chloroform… right up until it was thrown in his face. He gasped in shock, and drew in a lungful of the cloying sedative. Immediately, his head began to swim, and he pitched to his knees, holding his breath. The sounds of a struggle raged above him as, blinded by the fumes, he half-crawled, half-staggered towards the kitchen. Reaching out, groping sightlessly, he found the sink… a bowl of water… and without hesitation, he plunged his head into the icy liquid.

~*~


	20. Chapter 20

As soon as the man's arm moved, Watson tried to call out a warning, but it was too late. He saw Holmes go down, and caught the smell of chloroform in the air. He turned the gun on their assailant, but the man was quicker. Lashing out, he slapped the weapon from Watson's hand, grabbed his arm, and spun him around. With one arm braced across Watson's chest, he held a wickedly sharp kitchen knife to his throat with the other.

"If you move," he snarled, to Sir Henry, who stood in dumb-founded shock on the stairs, "I will kill him."

The moment's pause stretched into eternity, and then slowly, reluctantly, Sir Henry laid his pistol down on the step in front of him.

"Let him go," the American said, calmly, "I don't know who you are… but you've caused no irreparable harm. If you leave here, and do not return, I will make no effort to follow you or to have you arrested. You may simply leave."

"I don't think so," the man growled, needling Watson cruelly with the knife, "I didn't get what I came for, but I might decide to have some fun before I leave. No-one comes here any more… how long until your bodies are found, I wonder…"

"The police are already on their way," Watson replied, hoarsely, careful not to move too much as he spoke, "you have only a little time to make your escape…"

"Don't be so impatient, doctor," hissed the voice in his ear, "I do prefer to kill my victims slowly…"

The knife moved slightly, tightening across the doctor's throat, and Watson stiffened, closing his eyes, waiting for the fatal blow…

The sudden click of a revolver chamber made Watson open his eyes again as relief washed through him.

"Holmes," he croaked, as the knife fell away from his throat.

"Indeed," the detective replied, not taking his eyes from his quarry, holding Watson's revolver assuredly, as Watson quickly stepped clear, "Sir Henry; guard this man…"

"I have him in my sights, Mr Holmes," Sir Henry replied, coolly, stepping forwards, "and I'll shoot him if he so much as flinches."

Holmes made no response, as he took handcuffs from his pocket, and cuffed his prize to one of the dining chairs. Watson noticed that he was dripping wet; he had obviously made efforts to wash the chloroform from his face and clothes before he could be overwhelmed by the fumes.

"Now," Holmes handed the revolver back to Watson, who accepted it gratefully, "I know your method, your aim, and your motivation. These are easily deduced. You are a conman by trade, and no doubt a thief and a murderer to boot, if your skill with weapons is anything to judge by. You are a doctor, of that I have no doubt, I know everything there is to know about you… save for your name, doctor...?"

The man sneered at him; "So you're not as psychic as they claim… go hang, Holmes. I certainly won't. Dr Jim's escaped the noose more times than you've had hot dinners!"

"Ah. You are Doctor James Buckhannon. Wanted for the murder of three wealthy patients in Derbyshire, two in Lancashire, a complicated embezzlement matter in Birmingham and, of course, by the Scottish Lord whose daughter's trust you so callously abused to help yourself to a sizable part of the family fortune," Holmes recounted, from memory, "along with a whole host of petty crimes."

Buckhannon scowled at him; "There isn't a jail cell can hold me. You'll see. I'll have you yet, Holmes – I'll make you and the doctor dance, so I will! I'll take my time over it, too..."

"That remains to be seen," Holmes replied, turning slightly towards the stairs, "Ah. A carriage approaches. The local police…"

Sure enough, several uniformed officers appeared, and, once Watson had introduced Holmes, their air was respectful as they carried away the prisoner, as Dr Mortimer entered the house. He stared around with an air of vague, slightly repulsed familiarity at his surroundings. The four of them were silent for a moment, broken only by Watson, coughing slightly, holstering his revolver and reaching to lean against the back of the chair.

"Come, Watson," Holmes said, with uncharacteristic gentleness, "it sounds like you are developing quite a cold; let us avail ourselves of the warmth and hospitality of Baskerville Hall."

"Indeed, gentlemen," Sir Henry smiled, "I should welcome the company!"

~*~


	21. Chapter 21

Buckhannon was indicted before the magistrate the following day. Holmes and Watson attended court, the latter pale and making every effort to smother his coughing; a hangover from the time spent out on the snow-ravaged moor, Holmes felt. Both gave evidence, along with Dr Mortimer and Sir Henry. Only Sally, the serving girl, tried to speak in her lover's defence, until the Judge impatiently dismissed her tearful recounting of their tragic backgrounds and promptly sentenced Buckhannon to five years' imprisonment.

"It's not enough, Holmes," Watson said, bitterly, as they left the court, "he may have done no real harm here, but he's wanted for murder elsewhere…"

"Murders that we could neither prove his involvement with, nor testify to," Holmes replied, darkly, "I fear we have not seen the last of him. Come; this freezing weather does neither of us any good. We shall return to London tomorrow; you to the warmth of Baker Street and Mrs Hudson's tender mercies, and I to my cases… I have been gone for too long."

Watson smiled, knowing his companion's hatred of inactivity.

"As you wish, Holmes," he acquiesced, "maybe one day we will come back here under more pleasant circumstances!"

"Perhaps, Watson," Holmes allowed himself a ghost of a smile, "yet I confess I find Dartmoor a bleak and chilling place… quite suited to one of your romantic stories!"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles, or The Case of the Vengeful Ghost?" Watson suggested.

"Indeed!" Holmes laughed, as they walked to Sir Henry's repaired carriage, which waited for them, "Why not both? But now, let me see… let us make arrangements for our return…"

They stepped up into the waiting carriage, already making plans to go back to their home in London, and, as such, not even the observant detective saw the malevolent stare that watched them from the barred window of the court room jail cell. In fact, no-one was near enough to hear the muttered threat…

"Mark my words, and mark them well, Holmes, Watson; Dr Jim's got your number, oh yes he has, and that number will soon be up!"

~*~

Finis

~*~

A/N: I would just like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story - it has meant a great deal to me; so thank you for your kind comments to a novice writer, and for such a warm welcome to this genre... I hope I will be able to write more Holmes stories soon. As you may have guessed, I am already hoping that the muse stays with me long enough to complete a sequel to this one... if you want one, that is?


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